The Divine Purpose
by rachelgatinas
Summary: It was just a show, or at least that's what 22 year old Daisy thought. Little did she know that it would be a show and a certain green eyed hunter that would send her mental state and life spiraling into danger after four months of nightmares. Daisy saw everything Dean endured and did in Hell, he never knew she was there and then he grabbed her foot while climbing out of his grave.
1. Chapter 1: Unconcious Selection

**Opening Note: **Hi there! Welcome and thanks for giving this little experiment a go! This story was previously posted under the same title, however, I found that I wanted to take it in a slightly different direction from what I had written in the previous version and rather than going back and re-editing it, I decided to redo certain aspects that weren't necessarily fitting my original vision and re-upload altogether.

If you're anything like me and want to know what you're committing your time to before you begin reading, this is a Dean/OFC story. There will be romance and the classic "trapped in TV land/trapped in another world" tropes are what this story heavily relies upon. The story technically begins following the conclusion of episode 3.16 No Rest for the Wicked, but is set into motion with 4.01 Lazarus Rising. The idea is to follow this story through with seasons 4 and 5 of Supernatural. I'll be honest, the plan is to make it pretty romance-heavy because I'm not interested in rewriting episodes of the show just to jam my original character in them; I'm interested in developing the relationship between Dean and said OC while exploring how it affects the unhealthy dynamic between Sam and Dean.

If you hate Mary Sues, then hopefully you will find yourself enjoying this piece because that is the biggest thing I've tried to avoid here, in addition to capturing Sam and Dean's characters accurately. This is my first time writing a fanfiction in general so I'm expecting there to be slips and definitely aspects of this story that could be heavily improved, but hey, first time for everything right? (Also, I am doing some beta searching and if anybody has any recommendations/would like to beta then that would be wonderful, as I do wish to put out my _best _work possible.)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural, its characters or anything associated with it. I only own the protagonist of this story and have merely taken liberties with the universe Eric Kripke created.

**Trigger Warning: **Much like the show, this story does heavily reference and explore religion within some chapters and while the female protagonist of this story is agnostic, the character does contemplate the idea of religion and the beliefs of different religions during Dean Winchester's time in hell and following the introduction of the canon character, Castiel, within this story. Religion vs. science is also a recurrent theme – if exploring the reality of such things makes you uncomfortable, then this story may have a similar effect. This story is not, however, about exploring either religion or science. The themes are present due to the nature of the show and the protagonist's own background.

Specific triggers for this chapter are descriptions of torture, mutilation, gore, etc., as Dean's time in hell will be described.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Unconscious Selection**

_August 1__st__, 2008_

_Toronto, Ontario_

I honestly regret a lot of things on a daily basis. I mean, by the time I'm in bed at night I can list the top ten most regrettable deeds I've committed in just one day, but hell even I couldn't have predicted _this. _Admittedly, I am an embarrassing person. That much I can and am willing to accept. My tongue works before my brain does and I have a bad tendency to phrase things in an awkward or insensitive manner and only realize how bad I sound after I have already said them. Just about any time I open my mouth is followed by me wishing there was some kind of ctrl + alt + delete button for life and most of my day is spent verbal backspacing. I sure don't make the best choices either but does that really warrant the crap my brain has flung at me these past three months?

Out of all the bad choices I made, this one definitely takes the cake for the worst one. Boy do I regret watching that stupid show. I mean there were some pretty heavy influences, but neither my friends nor my mother taped me to a chair and forced me to commit the awful chore of having to watch two hot men driving across the country in a '67 Chevy, slaying whatever supernatural creature crossed their paths. Nope, that decision was all me. Mom might have made me watch the pilot with her, but I'm the moron who finished the other 59 episodes that were out and liked them. Definitely nobody forced me to care about the protagonists, yet here I am. An embarrassingly dedicated Dean girl who allowed the television to get to her brain – literally.

The Bible calls Hell a conscious torment that is eternal and irreversible. The Quran states that Hell is a real place, not a state of mind nor a spiritual entity. The horrors, pain, anguish, and punishment a soul faces within its fiery depths are all real. Religion has always been a huge part of my family and the very possibility of eternal damnation ingrained into my mind by my so very conservative parents. Yet there was no Book of Revelation or Psalms that could have prepared me for what I saw in my dreams every time my eyes closed. Each night the same picture would paint itself within my unconscious mind. A prison made of bone and flesh; of blood and fear.

Like any other fan, I was pretty torn about my favourite character being ripped to shreds and sent to Hell. However, I doubt many other fans actually have nightmares about what happens to said favourite character, in Hell, each night. I keep blaming it on either the show, my intense dedication to fictional characters, or my brain. In all honesty, I don't know what else to think of this whole ordeal. It took me about 0.2 seconds to fall in love with the classic rock obsessed martyr as he hit on his younger brother's girlfriend and proclaimed his love for The Smurfs in those first ten minutes of the show, but even _I _wasn't that dedicated? Sure, my tumblr mostly consisted of his face and text posts proclaiming my adoration for him, but he had never made an appearance in my dreams prior to the season three finale. Nothing like this had _ever _ happened before and I practically drowned myself in fiction, from the TARDIS to the world of Ice and Fire, and never has my mind conjured up any form of unconscious thoughts or images about the characters in those worlds.

It all began with that season finale. Sleep had quickly become something I dreaded. What was once a relief from the hours spent studying and drowning myself in textbooks had now become something I tried my best to evade. Peacefulness is a feeling that is even more foreign to me nowadays, along with a good night's rest. For three consecutive months, I've drowned cups of coffee like shots and popped stimulants as if I would not live to see the next day. No way is any of this helping my health or my academics, but what other choice did I have? I would become a prisoner to my own mind each time I lost consciousness and it is always the same cycle each night. The psychoactive drugs lose their effect and the caffeine in my system fades as my eyes lose yet another battle.

In my unconscious state, I drift back to that awful place. Nothing about it ever changes aside from the level of fear that arises within me with each visit I unwillingly make. My ears hear the screams of the tortured before I see the long dark chains that are connected to the bodies from which the voices come. The noise of the red sky is thunderous – but never loud enough to drown out the cries of agony – and the sky itself is always full of lightning and chains, while the poisonous green fog in the air is suffocating and the strong scent of sulphur overcomes my senses. It is always the same, this setting of my nightmares, as well as the man within them. Interestingly enough, the show never showed much of Hell, other than a single image of Dean attached to multiple chains, fear marring his features. I try to push this little fact to the very back of my mind because it certainly doesn't help the theory of my nightmares being induced by what I've seen on the show.

His green eyes – that were striking once and one of my favourite parts of him, I can't help but think – are clouded with pain and there must be more blood on his body than in it. Yet the blood and the pain cannot mar the beauty he possesses. Were it not for the fact that hooks are in his ankles, wrists and chest, or that his shoulders stretch far beyond what is physically possible, I imagine I would find myself staring at him for entirely different reasons. The same entranced expression on my face that would be present each time his face graced my television screen would be the expression I would wear, yet the blood and hooks and torture can't disfigure his appearance. Nobody _enjoys _watching their favourite character hurt is the justification I would give myself every time Dean endured a stab wound and I felt the pain as if I had been the one harmed.

The two sub-categories of torture are physiological methods and physical methods: in my dreams, I have seen all two thousand and sixty five physical methods that may be used to make a man's insides his outsides. Each one is demonstrated upon him. The other man, who calls himself Alastair, mercilessly tortures Dean without hesitation. He's new. I can tell that Alastair is a demon from his black eyes, yet I have never been able to understand why he's a recurring character in my nightmares. The demon rips Dean apart and then puts him back together at the end of each "session", only to tear him apart once more. Alastair is not a character that has ever been on the show and why my brain would conjure up such an awful apparition with the sole purpose of hurting somebody I loved – no matter his status as very fictional and definitely not real – is beyond me. Some scientists say that dreams are our unconscious desires making themselves known to us or our most private fantasies. I have no desire to hurt Dean and the only fantasies I have involving him are of a very different nature.

Despite his obvious pain, Dean merely howls a single name at the sky with each incision inflicted upon him. I can only watch with an ache in my chest and an increasing need to hug Dean close to me, while whispering in his ear that Sam is safe and alive on Earth.

* * *

"Have you changed your mind yet?"

"No."

* * *

Time passes differently within the Hell my subconscious has conjured up. This is something I realize halfway through the second month. It is actually one hundred and five times faster there than it is on Earth. This makes three days on Earth roughly equivalent to a year in Hell. I did the math. For twenty years I saw Dean get tortured in unimaginable ways before I realized how long he had truly been in the Pit and the thought creates a pit of unease within my stomach for some odd reason. Nothing I ever saw on Supernatural ever made my stomach knot this way and hell, I've read every A Song of Ice and Fire book to date. That world is crueller and yet I don't blink an eye as I read those books. Perhaps my adoration for Dean as a character was merely stronger?

Tonight marks three months since my recurrent nightmares began and in Dean's case, thirty years spent in hell. Thirty years spent watching him fall apart and being built up again to only be torn down once more. Dean has never seen me and is not even acutely aware of my existence. At least, that's my hypothesis. I see the hooks pulling at him; I hear the taunts that leave Alastair's mouth and my protests ring loud in my ears, but never his. It's as if a two way mirror separates us. I am invisible to him as much as he is visible to me. There are times when I will be directly standing behind Alastair and Dean's eyes never hold any recognition of the fact that a stranger is standing behind his torturer, begging him to stop.

Each night it is the same cycle. Dean is strung up like a prisoner and Alastair is the predator who stalks towards his prey with a glint in his eyes that makes shivers run down my spine.

It baffles me – it truly does – as to why my subconscious would create such a terrifying individual. Henry David Thoreau stated once that "dreams are the touchstones of our characters." I'm not in a cult or anything, my horror movie choices are limited and I definitely have no interest in torturing _anybody_. Despite this, my dreams were full of a stranger inflicting pain upon somebody I adored. I wonder what Thoreau would say about me.

The only new development in my dreams has been Alastair's offer, which he now makes at the end of every day. Dean would be granted freedom for his torture if he would start torturing souls himself. The very thought of Dean doing to others what Alastair does to him makes bile crawl up my esophagus. No. The word repeats like a mantra inside my head and I tell myself that he would never. If there was one thing that Dean Winchester was, it was a well-intentioned extremist. The one thing that three seasons of Supernatural had taught me is that Dean is willing to do whatever it takes to kill demons and monsters as long as it means he saved somebody in the end. _Saving people, hunting things. The family business. _I had faith in Dean; he has refused Alastair for thirty years, his resolve won't break now. These are the words I tell myself each time Alastair makes the offer and they sound much more convincing than they feel.

Tonight marks three months of my nightmares and thirty years of Dean's torture. Anxiety has riddled me since I woke this morning and I am unable to rid myself of the feeling that something terrible will happen tonight.

* * *

The day had started off more peacefully than others, I realize wearily as I drown my morning coffee. The liquid does little for me now, but I haven't been able to give up my dependency on it just yet. Since my dreams had started, I would wake up screaming more often than not and sweat would have drenched my clothes. Thank god I wasn't one of those living-at-home university students because there was no possible way to explain my current state to my family. What was I supposed to say? _'Hey mom, that show you showed me? Yeah, I watched the rest of it and now I have nightmares about the main character in Hell!' _I would be lucky if I _only _ended up with a therapist with that one and knowing my superstitious mother, she would probably think somebody cast the evil eye on me and have a complete exorcism performed. These nightmares were the entire reason I had avoided visiting home this summer – it's easier to wake up screaming your lungs out when you're alone. I had lied about wanting to take the summer for tuition and spend it studying for the MCAT. The only good thing to come out of my deteriorating mental state was that I was staying up longer and studying more during that time.

This morning, there was no screaming and only a thin layer of fluid had dried on my skin by the time I had pushed back my desk chair. It had been half-way around the second month that I had completely renounced sleeping on the bed, opting instead to spend my nights drowning coffee and studying until my body decided it couldn't go on. I could have sworn that I had once again passed out in my desk chair with my head on my biology textbook, yet I woke up in my bed. It was almost peaceful, a feeling that I haven't been familiar with since these night terrors began.

These little changes in habit and causes of confusion should have set off one or more warning bells within my mind, but I let the alarming thoughts go much easier than I should have and reveled instead in the fact that my nightmare the previous night had been rather short-lived before it completely faded to black.

My days are no more peaceful than my nights. In the darkness of the night I see Alastair carving up Dean in every way humanly and inhumanly possible, while during the light of the day the unimaginable pain in Dean's lifeless eyes flashes before my own and his cries echo in my ears.

I keep reassuring myself repeatedly that nothing my brain showed me at night was real. This should be the easy part, considering the man in the starring role of my nightmares wasn't real and his actor was probably hitting up cons or something in LA; not being tortured in Hell. I felt stupid for even considering the possibility in the first place, but stupidity I blamed on fear and fear I blamed on shock. The first night, with the dream that began it all, my shock had stupefied me to the point where any screams I might have wanted to let out were caught in my throat and all I could do was watch. As Dean struggled against the chains and the hooks and cried out for Sam again and again, I stood there frozen in shock, but that first night was also the easiest to recover from. The scene of Dean attached to chains, it was one that _was _in the show and I was able to blame it on the shock induced from the episode. The rest of the nightmares have been, and are, much harder to recover from. Its a lot harder to admit that the screwed up things you're seeing were created by your brain rather somebody else's.

Researching into dream psychology became one of the healthier habits I have obtained out of this whole ongoing ordeal, as I pondered the purpose of my dreams. There was none, as far as I'm concerned, and some research agreed with me. Other research told me I was an idiot and that all dreams had a function. Whether that function be coping or warning. This one I couldn't explain. What possible reason could there be for me having nightmares about somebody that I knew was not real? I never had nightmares about Chucky the Doll and that movie freaked me out more than any episode of Supernatural ever has. Why couldn't I be a normal person and have nightmares about the MCAT like every other student taking that exam?

* * *

Dean Winchester refused Alastair for ten thousand nine hundred fifty-seven point three days before he broke.

* * *

The revolting scent of sulphur invades my senses before I even open my eyes. It is always the same scene; the last thing I remember is reading a passage in my textbook on amino acids, the next everything is black and then I am standing. I'm always standing before Dean, but he is never aware of my presence. Sometimes I arrive before the torture begins, times when Dean's head is hung low and tears drip down his face, and other times I arrive when Dean is already bloody and bruised. Today it is the former. His arms are strung up and his head is hung too low for me to see those magnificent green eyes that have lost their life. Scarlet stains his shirt – one spot in his chest, another in shoulder and the further I go down his body, the more blood I see where the hooks meet his skin. I never know which is worse: the chains or the table. Alastair straps him down sometimes, but he never covers Dean's mouth. He enjoys hearing him scream and cry out for Sam too much.

For a rare moment it is only Dean and I in the private torture chamber. No Alistair, no screaming souls begging for peace. Of all the sarcastic text posts I reblogged and made on tumblr of what I would do if I ever met Dean Winchester hypothetically, I never imagined that it would be in this manner. Of course, Dean doesn't know I am there. He never does. At times like these, where Alastair hasn't arrived yet, whenever I enter this place I can never look at Dean. Not in the eye, despite his ignorance to my presence. My feet shift and I nervously rub my arm; I always feel too much like an invasive outsider, which is ridiculous considering these nightmares are figments of my own imagination and brain.

The sound of heavy footsteps meets both of our ears and while Dean keeps his head down, I turn due to my own anxiety. He has arrived and he is going to hurt Dean again. Whether it's the screech of the old door opening that makes me cringe or the thought of Dean being in pain again, I don't know. I do know that I fear those awful eyes as much as he does and hate those hands that have inflicted so much pain upon an already broken soldier. '_His smile is the worst_,' I think to myself as he stalks into the room like a predator, that arrogant smirk I know all too well gracing his features and a rusted knife twirling between his fingers. Dean winces and so do I; we both know what is coming.

"Ready for another day, Dean?"

The question is too casual, as if he's discussing something as insignificant as the weather. Dean usually responds to Alastair's taunts with his own verbal attacks, the only defense he has left here – they've already used Sam against him – but today there isn't even a disgusted smirk in response. Dean stays silent while my heartbeat picks up its pace. Somewhere in my mind it briefly registers that my hands are sweating and slipping against one another, but I can't breathe. There is no oxygen for me to take in, only one word ringing through my head like a mantra. _No, no, no, no._

Alastair's voice lowers to a whisper as his lips close in on Dean's ears and I barely hear what he is saying over the sound of blood rushing in my ears, but I don't have to strain my hearing to know what it is. It's the same speech he gives Dean each day, the one with the taunting and constant reminders that he was damned.

"You know that refusing me does you nothing. Nobody is coming to save you. Not Sammy, not daddy. You can continue saying no, but nothing good will come of it."

Chills going up and down my back make me shiver and there is numbness in my shaking hands as anger flares up within me once he begins tracing the knife along Dean's jugular vein. He pricks it and the blood begins to trail out like water out of a cracking dam as Dean's eyes begin to close from the lack of oxygen. _I can't watch this anymore_, but I can't bring myself to look away either. _He's hurt, he's hurt._ The injuries gained here do little to sever the body in any way; I've learned that from my time spent watching Alastair torture Dean. The demon knows the human body as well as I do. He knows every weak spot, which muscles to puncture and which bones to break. I have seen him practice all of his knowledge on Dean, but the fact that Dean's body will regenerate itself never stops me from wincing each time Alastair moves closer to him. Be it with or without a weapon of torture.

"What do you say, Dean? This can all stop. I'll never touch you again." He trails the knife against Dean's left cheek now. "All you have to do is accept your turn." Another cruel smile. "You know you deserve it, after the thirty years you've spent on the rack." The knife is no longer touching his face, instead, Alastair is extending it towards him.

_No, no, no! _

My mind is screaming and my heart is racing. I know it before Dean responds. _T__hey've broken him_.

Dean does not speak nor does he raise his head to meet Alastair's eyes. Words are caught in my throat once more and the fear blooms in my chest as Dean slowly raises his hand and grabs on to the hilt of the knife. I no longer think about my racing heart – I'm surprised that nobody else can hear its rhythm drowning out the sound of everything else –, but the terror overcoming my body as it overrules any other senses I possess. This time, despite the frog caught in my throat, I can't hold back the scream. Not anymore.

The piercing sound rips through the air before I know that I am the one making it.

I can't remember the exact moment my mouth opened and the sound left my vocal cords, but I do remember a distinct feeling of glass breaking, as if the two way mirror that separated me from them had broken. Both men turn to me in an instant and Dean's hand instantly drops from the knife, his head shooting up.

Now that I look back upon the moment, I realize that it was his eyes – I mean, it was everything, but it was his eyes first. Even in that awful place, his eyes had the power to make me feel as if I were being swallowed into a storm that spoke my name and swept me from my home and ate me up and knew every single one of my flaws, yet still managed to sing so loud that I couldn't block it out. For the first time in the three months I have been seeing this man, his eyes meet mine and I am no longer invisible to him. He didn't need to call me. Not then or ever because that first time that I met his gaze, I was already too far gone.

Shock clouds his features and I'm certain that our expressions must be mirroring one another's. Faces red from fear and eyes bugged out like some cartoon character. I am distinctly aware of the demon still in the room and the fact that I am still in some form of Hell, but for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm dreaming and despite every cell in my body calling for me to do so; every survival instinct evolution ever gave me telling me to look away and be aware of my environment, I can't tear my gaze from him.

"Well, now what do we have here?" It is the demon's menacing voice that finally forces my eyes away from Dean's, only to be met with terrifying black ones. Dean is not the only one who can see me, I realize, and my heartbeat increases once more if that is even possible at this point.

He begins stalking towards me with the rusty knife raised and a threatening look on his face and fear strikes my heart once more.

_Its just a dream, its just a dream. Count your fingers, its just a dream!_

I'm only half aware of the heavy panting that is echoing throughout the room as I quickly look down at my hands. _Five fingers on each hand. Ten in total. _No, no, no! There was always an unequal number of fingers in dreams! I shouldn't have been able to count them so easily, it was meant to be difficult while dreaming!

I can only look up in terror before the demon is in front of me and there is a burning pain in my left forearm.

* * *

**Closing Note: **Thank you for reading! I hope liked this chapter and where this story is headed. Feedback would be greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2: Natural Selection

**Opening Note: **First off, I would like to thank everybody who reviewed, followed and favourited this story! I honestly didn't expect to receive such a positive response for the first chapter, but I'm glad that people are interested in this idea and that they're liking Daisy. _Big _shoutout to norfintroll, YoullJustHavetoDeal, MaddieLB and Isabella Poulous; my first reviewers! Your positive feedback and wonderful comments really made me feel better about this being my first story and encouraged me to write more, so thank you for that!

This chapter ended up being _very _different from what I initially planned, but I can't say I'm all that displeased with the final result as it did end up being quite smooth and I didn't want to prolong Dean and Daisy's "official" first meeting until the third chapter. I would really appreciate it if I could get some feedback on whether or not I'm making Dean sound like canon-Dean because that's what I'm mostly worried about. I'm not a member of the Supernatural writers' team, but I do want the characters to stay in character and relatively within the realm of realism with this.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural, its characters or anything associated with it. I only own the protagonist of this story and have merely taken liberties with the universe Eric Kripke created.

**Trigger Warning: **Much like the show, this story does heavily reference and explore religion within some chapters and while the female protagonist of this story is agnostic, the character does contemplate the idea of religion and the beliefs of different religions during Dean Winchester's time in hell and following the introduction of the canon character, Castiel, within this story. Religion vs. science is also a recurrent theme – if exploring the reality of such things makes you uncomfortable, then this story may have a similar effect. This story is not, however, about exploring either religion or science. The themes are present due to the nature of the show and the protagonist's own background.

Specific triggers for this chapter are descriptions of injuries, torture and cursing.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Natural Selection**

_August 2__nd__, 2008_

_Toronto, Ontario_

I awoke with a gasp, my mind alert as images of Alastair flashed before my eyes. My heart continued to race like it had in the nightmare - if it could even be called that anymore - and suddenly the sheets around me became far too suffocating. I hear the blood pounding in my ears like a drum as I struggle against my soaked clothing and blankets, fighting to break out of the soft restraints as panic continued to set into my mind. _The fingers_. Why had I been able to count the fingers? The amount of clarity I had in that moment, when I was looking down at my hands with anxiety making its way through every cell in my body, still terrified me. Every research paper, book or article that I had ever read about dream psychology and nightmares mentioned the hands reality check. The instructions were simple and I had followed them to a tee, that much I was certain of.

Step 1:

Look at your hand or both hands and focus on them.

Step 2:

Count the fingers in your head or out loud. They may have the wrong number of fingers or the number may change as you attempt to count them. The fingers may also appear to be deformed and keep on changing when you look at them. Your hands could also be the wrong colour, or have other abnormalities.

Not only were my hands their usual brown colour, shape and size, but they also had the same amount of fingers as they usually did and they had stayed that way when I had attempted to count them. It had occurred to me quite early on, after the first couple of nights, that my nightmares were more vivid than any average dream I had ever had. In fact, according to ever reliable doctor – whose research I had read – claimed that my nightmares were unusually clear. I had passed this off as being a 1 in 100 thing that probably happened to like five percent of the population, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to convince myself now.

The burning pain in my left forearm was what tore my thoughts from this alarmingly not-so-little epiphany, although it did next-to-nothing to stop the tears from running down my already soaked face. Maybe it was the pain or maybe it was the demon-induced fear that still ran rampant through me, but I refused to look down and inspect the source of the fire making its way through my veins, opting to squeeze my eyes shut instead. It didn't escape me that the pain I was currently feeling was in the exact same area as it was in my dream. One of the very first things that I had been taught in my highschool Sports Medicine class was to never ignore pain. That was a rule that I lived by since tenth grade and what I told every fellow student who came to me with a sprain, fracture, or meningitis.

_Never ignore pain. _

Yet there I was, ignoring the pain as I attempted to push the burning sensation out of my mind. Instead, I blindly reach over in the dark – using my good arm – to turn on the lamp that rested on the small table beside my bed, frantically turning its knob. Relief flooded through me as the light simultaneously flooded the room. I barely registered what had occurred within those sixty seconds of my body leaving the mattress and my feet touching the cold floor. Usually, it was my lack of blood circulation that could be held accountable for my exaggerated response to the icy air that would stab every surface of my skin – penetrating each nerve until the very strands of DNA were frozen – upon exiting my bed.

This time, it was the memory of Alastair that froze me to the very core. It was one thing seeing a demon inflicting pain upon somebody I was very fond of and it was a whole other thing to finally be an active participant in his little game, but to be the one on the receiving end of his blade? Well that was just fifty shades of terrifying and the very memory had me frantically rubbing my shoulders in an attempt to stop the chills that made me shake as I paced my bedroom, the hair sticking to my sweaty forehead making it nearly impossible to see the foot of my bed in time.

"Shit!" I cursed out as the piercing pain made itself known in the big toe of my right foot. That was just what I needed on an already crappy night – to stub my toe.

An exasperated sigh left my lips as I pushed my hair back to assess the damage, _finally_ not feeling like I was _that_ blind without my glasses. My eyes travelled up from my now red toe, lips pursed in annoyance, only to be met with a sight that made me want to faint on the very spot. Crimson stained my sheets, bright and fresh. My first thought was to look down at my pajama pants before I remembered that my period had ended the day before. It was only when the burning pain in my forearm made an appearance again that I pried my eyes from my sheet and acknowledged my left arm for the first time in that night.

Where there had been smooth skin less than an hour ago was now home to a gruesome incision with blood trickling out of it and staining the skin around the wound.

* * *

I mumbled a thank you to my friend as he handed me my cup of coffee, directing my attention back to the triglyceride structure of fats as I tapped my pen nervously against the textbook. It had been three nights since the bloody sheets and I was running out of ways to keep my mind off of the white bandage that covered nearly my entire forearm. I had tried everything: coffee, loud television and music and anything else that would normally keep me up, but the coffee had run out of my apartment and my friends were beginning to demand why I had been avoiding them for almost two months. How was I supposed to respond to that? _'Sorry. I've been a little busy having nightmares about our favourite character and being tortured by demons.' _Yeah, that would work out incredibly well. So here I was, swallowing what little pride I had left and socializing like a contributing member of society.

"Daisy?"

"Hm?"

"Are you okay? You've been distant since June…and quiet?"

Damn it. I guess I wasn't as discreet as I had originally thought after all. Sighing, I smile up at him as genuinely as I'm able to right now.

"Yeah, Seb. I'm fine. Just trying to study for the MCAT," I replied, tapping the textbook again. It wasn't completely a lie. I would be writing the test in September and anybody who knows me also knows that I'm a perfectionist when it comes to my grades. It really isn't unusual to find the source of the bags under my eyes to be late nights spent studying. Still, he is unconvinced and I know it, but he doesn't push me and just nods.

The truth was that I was the farthest thing from okay. I was scared; frightened. No, frightened was an understatement. I was terrified, horrified, petrified and every other synonym for it in the Oxford English Dictionary. Seriously, _what the hell?_ Random cuts don't just appear on your skin. They especially don't appear on areas where scary demons cut you in your nightmares. Did that mean my nightmares weren't just some really weird lucid dreaming trip? _'But that would be impossible.' _I don't refute the idea of Hell, never have, but if I accepted there to be even a slight possibility of my nightmares not just being some weird hallucinations created by my brain, then that would imply the acceptance of demons. Furthermore it would imply the acceptance of Dean being real, but that was one thing I could not get behind. Dean Winchester was as fictional as they got. Jensen Ackles was real and he most definitely was not in Hell.

My nightmares were just nightmares and the cut on my arm was some anomaly. Therapy might actually be a good idea at this point. Or maybe I could speak to one of the Health Sciences majors who were going into psychiatry, in September. Either way, I couldn't accept there to be a reality behind what I would experience as soon as my thoughts stopped being voluntary.

* * *

I managed to stay up for four days before I finally collapsed with my head buried in A Feast for Crows. I may have gone to sleep with dragons and direwolves in my mind, but they sure as hell weren't what I woke up to. No, what I woke up to was a sight I could have gone my entire life without seeing. A woman was strung up – her head hung low, tears in her eyes and cries leaving her mouth – as a figure that I knew all too well gleefully carved into her abdomen with a knife. I caught the scream before it could leave my mouth, clamping my hand over it as my own eyes widened in terror.

'_I should have known. Holy crap, I should have known!'_

Last time, before I had distracted him with my scream, Dean had reached for the razor Alastair had offered him. I should have known that one interference from me wouldn't stop him from accepting it again. Or maybe these were my conscious thoughts creeping into my nightmares. From the moment Alastair had begun to make his offer a part of me had worried that Dean would actually accept it. Perhaps what I was seeing now was that fear coming to life because I knew there was a possibility that it could. Still, _I should have known_.

"Please stop," the woman sobbed. "I'll tell him you did everything you had to, just please stop!"

"Sorry lady, can't do that," Dean grinned in response. That was all I could take. My hand left my mouth and I threw up the contents of my stomach on the ground beside me. The sound of retching probably filled the room, if the two heads that snapped towards me– a sense of déjà vu was overtaking me at this point– and the four pairs of eyes that were burning holes into my crouched over form were any indication. Once I was sure that I had seen the last of my dinner from last night, through the water in my eyes I managed to look up just in time to see Dean ripping the hooks out of the woman's body as he proceeded to shove her towards a door.

"Get out," he growled and she didn't need to be told twice, as she ran back into what I presumed to be some kind of cage or something. That seemed like the kind of thing you would find in Hell.

My eyes widened as Dean abruptly spun on his heel and began stalking towards me. The expression on his face could only be described as murderous and the uneasy feeling made its way back into my stomach and as I began to back up. Big mistake, I realized as he now had me pinned against the wall. A fangirl's dream, really, but the Hell factor squashed any butterflies I might have felt at any other opportunity in which me, him and this position might have been involved.

"Who are you?" he demanded as he held the blade up to my throat. He didn't have the same broken or defiant expression on his face that I had been seeing for the past three months nor was he wearing the immaturely flirtatious grin that had adorned his face almost permanently before he entered the pit. As Dean Winchester stared down at me, there were zero traces of either his pleasant or depressant demeanor. His face had contorted to an expression that held an explosive and consuming anger; nostrils flared, eyes closed into slits and a growl erupting from his lips as he spoke. His furious eyes held a challenge in them, daring me to speak and promising to drive the blade he held in his hand through my throat if I gave the wrong answer.

The blade that had just sliced clean through another woman's abdomen only seconds before.

I swallowed any excess saliva that had accumulated in fear as the realization hit me like a truck. For the first time in my life, I was afraid of Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester – the man who was a good and righteous man, who had risked his life for strangers and traded his soul for his brother's. The same Dean Winchester who decreased his life expectancy with every slice of pie and sip of alcohol, who had wandering eyes and flirted with any woman who caught his eye, who was harmless to humans but a feared whisper among monsters. I now understood their fear, for Dean Winchester – this Dean Winchester – would not hesitate to follow through with the unspoken promise he was making with the razor in his hand. If I answered wrong, he would kill me.

Panic began to arise within me as it usually did during these nightly visits, but this time it wasn't induced out of fear for Dean. This time, the anxiety making its roots in my chest and blooming throughout my body was caused by Dean; it was born out of the fear I felt _because _of him and that thought was more difficult to wrap my head around than the idea that my nightmares might not just be dreams. I could feel my pulse beating in my ears, blocking out any sound other than our combined breathing. He stared at me in fury – nothing else – waiting for the answer I would give him as I stared right back at him. I couldn't tear my gaze from his, not because his fanfiction-green eyes were still the most beautiful pairs of human eyeballs that I had ever seen, but because I knew that the second this petrifying connection broke, I could die. I had never felt more certain of anything else in my life and so I kept staring, despite the fear in my heart and terror in every nerve, willing whatever this was to hold.

"_What the hell are you?!_" He roars and I physically flinch at the tone, my eyes snapping shut as I try to control my heavy breathing. Lord knows I did not do well under pressure. Of all the times I fantasized about being pinned against a wall by Dean Winchester, this scenario had not come to mind. Ever.

"D-Daisy…" I trail off nervously.

"Okay, what kind of a demon are you then, _Daisy _and why the hell are you following me?" He sneers, eyes still glaring at me in anger and suspicion.

"O-oh I'm – I'm not –"

Another growl erupts from his throat and I can't even enjoy him doing the jaw thing thanks to the fact that I might die in the next ten seconds. Death by Dean Winchester; what a way to go.

"I'm – I'm –" He presses the blade harder into my skin and I feel the first drop of blood making its way down to my chest as his scowl grows. For once, _I_ am at a loss for words. Nervously, I take as deep of a breath as the razor against my throat will allow, wincing as the scent of sulphur enters my nose and lungs, mixed with what little oxygen this place has to offer. This time, I start slowly though my voice still shakes with fear. "I'm a biomedical sciences student…" His brow furrows at my confession. "And I'm a human. A living human. Like still alive, you know? Not dead." I laugh nervously, trying to break the ice as much as the erm…_circumstances_ will allow. Unfortunately, it doesn't work. What a shocker.

"The hell do you mean you're still 'alive'? Everyone here is dead, sweetheart. Kind of comes along with the whole Hell thing," he sneers again, shaking his head at how ridiculous I must sound to him before his expression changes to a more forlorn one as he looks at me with more pity than anger. Nostrils no longer flaring, the scowl slowly disappears as he looks down at the ground. "Did uh – did Alastair send you?" His tone is quiet and I understand what he's asking as soon as the words are out. _'Are you my next victim? Do I have to torture you next?'_

"What?! No!" I am trembling now as the idea of a slow, painful death quickly passes through my mind and I don't even need to think it to know it; there is no way I could ever endure anything even minimal in comparison to what Dean or the woman Dean had been torturing mere seconds ago had. A quick death was much more preferable. Besides, I wasn't like him and every other soul down here. The wounds I acquired here were real, as Alastair had proven with the last and only souvenir he had ever given me. "I told you, I'm not from here! I – I don't belong here, okay?"

He chuckles almost sadly.

"Yeah, that's what they all say." His force on my throat weakens and his eyes cautiously dart between me and the blade before he completely drops it and steps back from me. This time, when his eyes meet mine once more, the green irises hold more question than suspicion. "How come they're letting you wander around like this? All the souls are supposed to be caged up."

I sigh in exasperation.

"I told you, I'm not dead. I'm still alive, okay? Soul and body are both intact."

"I think you're in denial, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that…" I shift my weight as I begin to twiddle my thumbs, feeling my cheeks heat up, which are no doubt a dark red by now. He raises an eyebrow, a small smirk on his amused face. I feel flustered and he knows it. I fail to realize that this is the first him he's smiled since he's ended up down here. "No, I'm not in denial…I…" How could I prove it to him? How was I supposed to convince him that I wasn't like the others here? It was pretty clear that he suspected me, considering my spectatorial role in his last two torture sessions. What reason did he have to trust me? I knew he was a cynic from the show and that he would call bullshit on any story I tried to feed him. Still, I had to try. Just because he had backed away didn't mean that blade wouldn't end up piercing my skin for a second time that night.

_I'm not like the others here…_

_I'm not like the others here…_

_I'm not like the others here…_

…

Jesus Christ, am I stupid or _what_?

Relief floods through me as I make my way towards him this time. He raises his eyebrows in question yet again as I come to a stop directly in front of him. Ignoring the look on his face, I pull up sleeve on my left arm, until it reaches the top edge of the white bandage, covering the wound Alastair gave me. Next, I reach over to the edge of his t-shirt and pull it up to his chest before his hand clamps around my wrists.

"Not really in the mood, darlin'," he states dryly. My head snaps up at his words and I stare at him in confusion for a moment before I realize what he means as heat floods my face again.

"_What?! _You think I? That I? N-no, god no! S-shut up!" I stammer nervously as my eyes become increasingly interested in the floor. "Just hold this up," I mumble, passing on the task of holding up his shirt to him and proceeding to unravel my bandage, too embarrassed to look him in the eye just yet. The bandage falls off my arm to reveal a cut, still bright red with the clotting process only having begun. "See this? Alastair, he cut me here last time…" I trail off, finally looking up with him. I don't want to bring up painful memories and torture him mentally after what has happened to him.

His face remains stoic and he nods.

"I heard you scream."

I snort.

"Pretty sure everybody did," I mumble to myself, though I'm sure he manages to hear. "Point is," I begin again, voice rising once more. "People here heal." I gesture to his uncovered abdomen to prove my point further. "I didn't. I woke up in my bed with a bloody arm _exactly _where he cut me. Believe me now?"

His face pales a little and the stoic expression begins to fall as he realizes that I am right – the wound is still there. I can see it in his face that he wants to deny it, but the evidence is in front of him. Souls heal no matter what is inflicted upon them here, humans don't.

"I…" I trail off, wondering if I really wanted to tell him the whole truth. He was still a cynic and a cut on the arm might be unnerving, but telling the guy that he was a fictional character I had dreams about? Even if it was all in _my _head, I have watched enough of Supernatural to know that he wouldn't believe me. So I settle for the partial truth. "I go to sleep and this is where I end up," I gesture to the space around us. "I don't know why, how, or even what, but it's been happening every single night for the past three months and I don't know how to make it stop. I don't know why you can see me all of the sudden. All I know is that I'm only here when I'm asleep and that I'm _very _much alive."

I dare to look at him after my little ramble, but he remains silent. Eyebrows furrowed and eyeing the ground. It is a long time before he speaks again.

"So what, you keep having 'Nightmare on Elm Street' trips?"

"Yeah," I nod. "Something like that."

"You…" he stays quiet for a moment before speaking up again. "You just vanished. After he cut you, I mean."

I nod.

"I know. I mean, I always eventually leave but I don't know what triggers it. One second I'm here and the next I'm waking up back there."

He nods in response but he doesn't speak again. I look up at him, examining his features. He seems…better than usual somehow and I can't help but think how utterly wrong that is as I stare at the blood that covers most of his clothing. For once, it isn't his but rather the woman's. Briefly, I wonder how many other victims he had before her but I don't manage to finish the thought before internally flinching at it. No…the idea of Dean hurting people – even if they were not innocent, though I had an inkling that Alastair was picking out good souls for the sake of mentally torturing Dean further – was unimaginable for me. The only thing I was familiar with seeing him do up until this point was help people. He saved them and protected them – he was too good to hurt them.

"You said you've been having these dreams for three months?" It's his voice that breaks me out of the dangerous train my thoughts were on.

I nod in response.

"So you…you saw everything." It's no longer a question, but rather a statement. I refuse to answer, though my silence surely says yes, knowing that the idea of me having any knowledge of what happened to him and what he did here shakes him to the core. This is something I can't imagine him telling Sam. In what world would he be comfortable with _me, _a stranger of all people, knowing any of this?

Another silence follows and I find myself desperately wishing this conversation was taking place in the impala. Not because she was quite possibly more valuable to me than my own car and I would do anything to even see it up close like any other fan, but because his loud music would at least drown out the awkwardness of this silence. The tension in the air is almost as thick as the sulphur and ironically enough, for the first time I feel as if I'm suffocated by it. The unspoken agreement is there; he doesn't want to talk about it, I won't bring it up. I have no intention of hurting him.

This time it is not Dean's voice, but footsteps that bring both of us back to reality.

"Alastair," Dean mutters. He grabs my right arm and despite the circumstances my brain still short circuits as I realize that he is voluntarily touching me. "You need to go. _N__ow_."

I stare at him for a second like he has two heads.

"Did you miss the part where I basically said that I can't control when or how I leave?" I hiss back at him.

The pressure around my arm increases as his grip tightens and he scowls.

"Look, if he finds you here then that means trouble for _both _of us. Now I don't know what he's going to do to you, but the fact that you only have a part-time membership for the Hell club tells me nothing good."

"That doesn't change the fact that I still can't control when I leave! I don't even know how too!"

"Damn it, woman then hide somewhere!"

"Seriously? Where am I supposed to hide _in Hell_? I haven't exactly gotten a lot of opportunities to explore, but I imagine security is pretty tight! Besides, what does it matter if he finds me? None of this is real anyway." The words feel bitter on my tongue because it does matter. It matters a lot. Alastair terrifies me to the core and I don't even want to _imagine _another confrontation with him, but it was Alastair who managed to send me back last time and maybe he could do it again. My brain definitely seemed to currently have zero plans of exiting out of sleep mode.

Dean's grip on my arm slightly loosens and his eyebrows are furrowed again.

"What do you mean none of this is real? How the hell can you say that after what you've seen? How can you say that after _that_?" he points to the wound on my arm, disbelief colouring his voice and face.

"I mean none of this is real, okay?! Not this place, not him and not you! None of it is! They're all nightmares that are a result of _me _not being able to tell fiction from reality!"

He sighs before his hand completely lets go of my arm. Before I know it his hands are cupping my face and I'm fairly certain I've lost all ability to move, think or speak at this point. I'm completely incapable of doing anything other than staring into those impossibly green eyes of his.

"Daisy," he's lowered his voice to a whisper now. "You need to listen to me. This is all very, very real and that man out there, the one who hurt you last time? He's dangerous and he _will _hurt you again, especially if you're really still alive. Now please, _think_. There has to be a way out of here, one you haven't thought of yet."

Despite the fireworks pounding in my skull and the oceans rushing in my ears, I manage to respond somehow. To think, all of this because he's touching me. My death really would be at the hands of Dean Winchester if my brain or the demon outside didn't beat him to it.

"Last time," it comes out breathy and I must sound like my lungs have given up on me, "when he cut me, I woke up immediately after."

Realization sparks in his eyes and he holds out the blade towards me.

"Oh no, no, no! You want me to…really?!" I take a step back from him.

"Daisy," he sounds exasperated now and I feel a stab of guilt hit me. He's trying to protect me, a stranger who has been seeing some of the most intimate details of his life for _months, _and I'm being difficult by throwing a fit. He _is _asking me to hurt myself, though. Most people would throw a fit at something like this. "It might be the only way."

My heart is pounding once again, for entirely different reasons now, however, and I slowly take the blade from him.

"Like that time with the Djinn?" I ask softly, despite my brain telling me that I already know the answer to this one, and his eyes widen.

"How did you – "

He is cut off by me abruptly making a very small cut on my left forearm, above the other one. If I was seriously going to do this then it had to be now.

Dean's shock-filled eyes are the last thing I see before I wake up once more with a burning sensation in my left forearm.

* * *

**Closing Note: **Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter; feedback is _always _appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3: Individual Differences

**Opening Note:** First off, Holy Chuck, the writer's block I had with this chapter was ridiculous! This chapter was originally supposed to be typed up and posted on _January_ _21__st, _but I unfortunately had a really hard time with getting into Dean's mind with this one and ended up having to write a full draft of this chapter entirely from his point of view in order to keep him relatively in character. School also really interfered with how much writing time I really had and I had to prolong this chapter until spring break. Hopefully that won't happen again! Chapter four is already under way and it should be posted shortly after this! Thank you to everybody who has reviewed, followed and favourited this story since its last chapter! I am once again stunned by the amount of positive reception this has garnered at only two chapters and I apologize once more for how long it took to get this chapter out.

The question of Daisy's name and how I came up with it arose in a review and my only answer to that is to keep reading. The history behind Daisy's name will also be revealed within the story itself, actually. On an entirely separate note, I hope you all like the new cover image! A friend made it for me in photoshop and unfortunately, much of the quality was ruined by the site. The woman in the image is who I envision Daisy as and I pretty much based the character's entire appearance upon her. Hopefully now you readers have a clearer vision of her as well, as I typically drop hints of my character's appearance scattered throughout the story in almost all of my work.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural, its characters or anything associated with it. I only own the protagonist of this story and have merely taken liberties with the universe Eric Kripke created.

**Trigger Warning: **Much like the show, this story does heavily reference and explore religion within some chapters and while the female protagonist of this story is agnostic, the character does contemplate the idea of religion and the beliefs of different religions during Dean Winchester's time in hell and following the introduction of the canon character, Castiel, within this story. Religion vs. science is also a recurrent theme – if exploring the reality of such things makes you uncomfortable, then this story may have a similar effect. This story is not, however, about exploring either religion or science. The themes are present due to the nature of the show and the protagonist's own background.

Specific triggers for this chapter include descriptions of injuries, bleeding, digging oneself out of a grave and ankle clutching. Also mentions of self-harm.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Individual Differences**

_August 3__rd__, 2008_

_Toronto, Ontario_

Things undoubtedly changed after that first, real conversation with Dean, or at least the nightmares did. I still have them every night and the setting remains consistent, but I've gone from seeing one disturbing thing to another. I no longer watch Dean getting tortured, instead he is the one who holds the blade and inflicts the pain. Maybe that was what finally drove me over the edge. Back when they couldn't see me, sometimes when Alastair would torture Dean, other demons would come to watch how the mighty Winchester had fallen. They had called Alastair "da Vinci with a razor". After Alastair had made me an active participant in his "art" and Dean rose up as his prodigy, I became hysterical. No longer was I just a spectator watching in disgusted wonder as Alastair painted a bloody picture with his blade. With every session my nightmares whisked me off too, I had taken to sitting with my back pressed against a wall, hands covering my ears and eyes snapped shut. This new position did next to nothing to drown out the cries of whoever was on the receiving end of the torture, nor did it take away the knowledge of what was happening. Every now and then I'll catch more than a glimpse of what Dean does to the other souls. It also did very little to hide me from those I was visible to, but it didn't matter if I was seen anymore. The only person who could see me was Dean. Yeah, imagine my surprise when Alastair completely ignored me, despite the fact that I appeared right in front of his face.

At this point it was no secret that both my brain and the version of Dean that it had created terrified me almost as much as the first and only time that Alastair had seen me. There are times when I hear the begging and crying of a soul before I even open my eyes. Their screams are nothing new to me, I often find myself disturbed by just _how _indifferent I've become to them during the past three months, but hearing them that up close stabs at something inside of me each time a new voice begs Dean to stop. It's only worse to open my eyes and see whatever method of torture he has decided to inflict upon whoever ends up on his rack. Ever since Dean agreed to Alastair's offer, even my waking moments were filled with thoughts of what he would do that night. Would he go with the messy blade or the burning acid? Would he start with the fingernails or the spleen? I can't hide the fear in my eyes when he turns to look at me. It's bad when his reaction to my fear is shame and oddly enough, I feel bad for making him feel bad. I mean, I used to literally curse out whoever hurt him while watching the show. But it is so much worse when there are fewer traces of remorse and more of joy. Hesitation was quickly turning into pleasure. It is during these moments especially that I recall what Ruby had said about Hell turning him into a demon. Had it already started? Would I go to sleep one day and see black where there should be green?

My only salvation in all of this is that I keep reminding myself that this version of Dean Winchester is by no means canon. The Dean Winchester I binge-watched in a matter of weeks is the real deal and he would _never _do any of this. Or so I told myself. I don't know what the eagerly anticipated season four held for the character I adored so much; I had avoided everything related to the show while I was awake as if it was the plague. I had also completely forgone re-watching it as I had once planned on doing, despite the insistent begging of my friend to binge-watch once more before the new season premiered. I had refused of course on the basis that watching the thing causing my nightmares would only bring me more nightmares. At this point, I was more than beginning to believe that these nightmares weren't just a psychological problem. Something is triggering them that goes well beyond my control, but the real problem lay in my lack of willingness to accept such a possibility. While I was willing to extend the benefit of doubt to anything likely, I only truly believed where there was evidence provided. Quite frankly, uncertainty made me uncomfortable.

But weren't the healing scars on my forearm enough evidence? As much as I tried, that was one phenomenon that I couldn't explain. Sure, this version of Dean was pretty different. More broken than usual and more brutal than necessary, but that was what Hell did to a person, I guess. Yet despite the obvious fear and disbelief this version of Dean, the one that has been emotionally scarred and traumatized to the core, must see on my face each time he looks at me, he repeatedly protects me as much as our location will allow him to. The only contact that we had really made since that first meeting was between the eyes. His would flicker to mine when Alastair's attention was directed elsewhere. Otherwise, he ignored my existence. As soon as the demon left the torture chamber, in the few minutes between his departure and return, Dean would hand me a blade without exchanging any words. I tried to focus more on the fact that he was even helping me in the first place and less on the blood of the soul that still covered the blade. I tried not to wonder just whose blood it _really _was on my arm every morning while inspecting the newly self-inflicted red addition.

What little relationship we have is by no means symbiotic. His glare is hard and his eyes are cold each time he directs even the slightest bit of attention towards me. He still doesn't trust me, which is beyond clear each time he looks at me as if I am some kind of an infiltrator. Of course, I try not to hold this against him. I've seen things he would never relay to Sam. I _still _see those things. What did surprise me was his silence on the obvious matter. I expected him to have more questions, especially after my djinn blunder. In his eyes, I was untrustworthy and still very much a threat. On top of that he must have realized by now that I knew too much? I doubt many girls claiming to be living human beings confronted him about his hunts. In Hell of all places too. Sure, he protected me from Alastair, but I kind of just pinned that on him being a good guy. Hell couldn't take that away from him and he probably didn't want to see his torturer any more than I did. Yet despite my endless analysis of his character, I could not for the life of me figure out the reason behind his silence. Maybe I was just his last ditch effort at redemption after the torturing. Keep the living girl alive a while longer, feel like you're not that awful – that kind of thing. Who knew, but whatever it was, I was grateful.

Of course, this was Dean Winchester and despite how decent he was being for somebody who was morphing into Hell's version of Picasso, he wouldn't let the djinn thing go unspoken of either.

For the first time in four days, the only two people within the chamber were Dean and I. Alastair had another "appointment" with some other unlucky bastard and Dean was told to make the chamber presentable for the next soul. Instead of cleaning, Dean had broken his silence, denying me my escape for the evening and simultaneously breaking our routine for the first time as he informed me about the panic I had set off in Hell. Apparently Alastair had been so livid after my disappearance that not only had the number of demons in the Pit tripled after that incident, but Alastair supposedly had a bounty on my head as well. This came as a bigger surprise, but I suppose that it did make sense. I'm more than certain that souls don't have the freedom to just vanish when faced with danger. The only valid assumption that left was that I was another Ruby-esque demon who had been attempting to break Dean Winchester out. Of course, this also meant that Alastair himself would be attached to Dean's hip until I was found and the idea of Dean having to spend even more time with that monster sent guilt shooting through every nerve in my body.

"I'm sorry," I had told him earnestly.

His eyes remained hard and jaw clenched as he began wiping off a scalpel.

…

He ignored me for seven more days before he spoke to me again. My continued supposed absence must have set Alastair off enough to leave Dean alone for a _second _time.

The Adderall had failed me once more, I realize as my body goes through its own routine to fight against the environmental change. My lungs burned for air, prompting me to take in a deep breath, only succeeding in kick-starting my now regular, and violent, fits of coughing. The alveoli in my lungs that had only been exchanging carbon and oxygen mere seconds ago are now invaded by the poisonous smoke that seems to cover every inch of the ground, while the awful stench of sulphur makes its way through my nostrils. There are white spots dancing in my vision and my head is pounding. The smoldering ground upon which I lay is sure to set my skin aflame through the thin material of my pajama top, sticking it to my skin as my body temperature rises at an impossible rate. I don't need to open my eyes to know where I am. I had always heard that merely being in Hell would make it difficult for a person to breathe; I just never thought that would be such a literal thing. This breathing problem had begun with my nightly Hell trips and I was always fine within the minute, but that knowledge never stopped the onslaught of panic I endured each time this occurred.

Panic would probably kill me faster than this place would. I sort of regretted each time I ironically claimed that Dean Winchester was more important to me than oxygen. Yeah, no. Two things I've learned in the past three months: oxygen is much more necessary and I _really _need to stop caring so much about fictional characters.

It was only when the fog cleared that I registered the feeling of two fingers resting on my pulse.

Fingers. Green eyes. Freckles.

_Oh god._

Cue my heart palpations.

He instantly drew back his hand upon noticing my open eyes and I'm fairly ashamed to admit that I noticed the missing body heat before I noticed that there was no soul getting tortured today. For the first time in a long time, I had not awoken to screams or a gruesome sight. I wish I had said something impressive during that moment. Flirtatious, snarky, _anything. _Alas, as nature would have it, I was neither flirty nor snarky. Just sarcasm and a brain full of memorized scientific equations. I am definitely not proud to admit that I laid on the ground in silence and stupidly stared at him with my mouth hanging open for several seconds before he spoke up.

"You planning on lying there all night?"

I manage to flush a shade of red that would put Crayola to shame before pushing myself up off the ground and proceeding to scoot backwards until my back is pressed against the warm wall of the torture chamber and I am hugging my knees to my chest.

"I wasn't planning on being here at all, actually." My own voice takes on a snappier tone by the end and for a second I think that there's amusement on his features as he seats himself upon the small table of torture tools across from me. I quickly turn away from him and opt to stare to the side instead. There is nobody on his rack, I confirm happily in my head, blissfully ignoring the fresh blood still staining it. I try to avoid looking at him as much as I can without making it obvious that my lack of eye contact is fear induced. Sometimes I'm afraid of seeing that joy stains his face after a successful torture session, but mostly I'm just afraid of the way I look at him in fear and sadness. Of all the people to look at in that manner…he shouldn't be one of them. Not him. I had gone on far too many times about Dean being a hero. I had spent too long believing in my own defensive words to be afraid of him now.

The most terrifying aspect of this entire situation itself is that despite the fact that it made me fear Dean, it always fades. Maybe that makes me the sick one, but I can't hate him. I can't harbour any ill feelings towards him other than disapproval. Knowing Dean's past, I often find myself thinking that maybe it's okay he's finally no longer the victim. That for once, it's okay that he gets to inflict the pain. I am wrong, though. Dean is still a victim to his own mind and if this version of him ever gets out of this place, I know for a fact that he would blame himself for every wound that he inflicted upon another.

Another sigh broke through me as I realized how rude that must have sounded. He had no reason to protect me from Alastair and all of Hell itself, yet here I was being ungrateful towards him.

"I'm sorry."

"You say that a lot."

"What?" My eyes snap to him in, curiosity filling me.

He shrugs.

"Sorry isn't an unusual word for the people in this place. The dead ones anyway."

_Oh._

"Daisy, right?" I nod in confirmation. Despite having not heard it in person or through a speaker for so many nights, the gruff sound is so distinct to my ears by this point that I could pick it out of a crowd of people speaking all at once. "How did you know about the djinn?"

There it was. The question I had been waiting for since I had stupidly mentioned its parent topic during my own distress. I bite down on my lip, unwilling to tell the guy sitting across from me about how that certain aspect of his life was the episode before the second season finale on a show about his life. This version of Dean Winchester may be just as unreal as the television one, but if there's one other thing that I had stupidly done up until this point, that would be paying attention to _every_ aspect of the character. When he and Sam were both sharing the screen, it was him that my eyes remained fixated on. When a bombshell had just been dropped on them, it was his reaction that I focused on. When the boys got injured, it was his pain that I felt for. I knew that he bit his nails when he was nervous. I knew that he ate so much food now because he used to go hungry so often for Sam when they were younger. I knew that he would lie about the severity of his injuries so that Sam would focus on himself first. Of course I knew about the djinn. I watched this guy grow from a soft, pretty eyed, young twenty six year old with hair that could rival a porcupine's head to a man who was torn apart by hellhounds because he loved his brother too much to let go. All of my knowledge was a result of me binge-watching three seasons in one month and reading every meta-analysis about him possibly written up until this point.

I also knew my brain well enough to know that it would use my extensive analysis of the character, Dean Winchester, and apply it to the figment it had conjured up. Meaning that if I told any of what I had just thought about to the guy sitting across from me, the most possible outcome of that would be another blade held up to my throat faster than I could blink. Yeah, that particular explanation would not go over well at all. For a second time since we've met, I decide to give him the partial truth.

"It's, um, sort of common knowledge for me…" I trail off vaguely, nervously tucking a few loose strands of my black hair behind my ear as I stared straight ahead at a small table filled with knives, scalpels and other shiny tools that I had seen in my biology textbooks. All of which held very different purposes down here. At least the months of watching those devices be used on people had made me less prone to the possibility of throwing up during an in-class dissection.

_Wow_, I really _have _become twisted if I'm comparing torturing people to dissecting fetal pigs and sheep hearts.

"Are you a hunter?" I can hear the surprise and almost understanding in his voice.

I had to laugh at that.

"What? No. God no." The idea of me as a hunter was far too ridiculous. Me, who wore pretty dresses, carried large handbags and was viciously in love with lipstick. I couldn't imagine trading any of it in for blood, ripped jeans and guns. I knew nothing about guns, anyway. I was certain that if even half of the crap that Sam and Dean hunted turned out to be real, I would be terrified to the point of cardiac arrest. The idea of being a hunter was one that was glamourized in the world of fandom and I won't lie, the job itself – if it were to exist – is admirable. You got to be a hero and save lives, but it was also one that I imagine came with a lot of baggage. Sam and Dean themselves were prime examples of this. I know for a fact that if the weight of the six billion lives rested on my weak shoulders, the knowledge of that alone would crush me beyond repair. Who was I to save people? Knowing me, I would die in such an embarrassing way that I would remain humiliated from beyond the grave. "My family is Muslim. Djinns are well known in Islam."

That wasn't a complete lie. While other kids were threatened to be grounded if they prolonged bedtime, my childhood consisted of my mother telling me and my sisters that a djinn would come to punish us if we didn't go to sleep.

"That doesn't explain how you knew that I went up against one."

"Did you?" I feign surprise, even raising my eyebrows for dramatic effect. "I didn't know that," I lie. "I don't even know you." Now that one was just _laughable_. "I was scared and saying things, I guess. I don't even think they're real, really." Lie.

He scoffs and it sounds more like "_you're a terrible liar_" in my mind, but he doesn't push the matter and for that I am grateful. He probably doesn't like the idea of a complete stranger knowing anything about him beyond his afterlife in the pit and doesn't want to entertain the idea of me having any kind of knowledge of him. If I were him, I would have torn my hair out in frustration if there was even a possibility that somebody who was a complete stranger to me could know so much about me.

"I'm Dean," he offers and I give him a small smile in return.

_I know who you are._

"Daisy," I respond automatically before realization dawns on me once more and I feel the heat crawling up my neck, colouring my cheeks at an impossible rate. "Which you knew because I already told you… and you just asked me… and I'll just shut up now."

He only chuckles in response. Its short-lived and faint, but still _wow_, I think as my cheeks flush red again. That sound alone could literally stop wars.

* * *

A new question had been added to the ever growing list that had started with that very first nightmare. Why did Dean even bother acknowledging my presence? We both knew by this point that my being here was pretty unavoidable, but that didn't mean that there was anything stopping him from ignoring me. This wasn't a fanfiction. I have known from the very beginning that Dean is under no obligation to give a crap about me and nor would he, hence my confusion to him striking up yet _another _conversation the very next night. I expected him to have questions about the djinn thing and we had already had that specific conversation push both our comfort zones. He clearly didn't believe my answers, but I didn't expect any interaction beyond the follow-up questions. Follow-up questions that never came, apparently.

Alastair was once again missing in action and Dead has just finished torturing a twenty-something pre-school teacher. She had been the first victim who wasn't traditionally seen as destined for Hell. The majority of Dean's past victims, the ones whose crimes I had bothered to pay attention to, had been variations of racists, murderers, rapists, and the greedy. Their screams had been easier to ignore. The cries erupting from this woman's throat made my stomach churn with discomfort. Luckily this time I didn't have to see what was happening because Dean had oh so graciously handed me a blindfold the second he had heard my usual panicked breathing. I had never been more apprehensive of having my vision taken for a few hours. The idea of being blindfolded in Hell of all places made panic shoot through every nerve in my body, but the thought of being blinded from Dean's actions tempted me to wrap the slip of fabric around my head. Within seconds after he held it out for me, I was reaching for it. I tried to ignore the fact that the blindfold itself was yet another tool used to inflict the torture and accepted his offering with gratitude, avoiding any contact with the bloodstains on its material. The lack of skin to fabric contact did not stop my brain from wandering, however, and I still wondered where the stains had come from. Whether they had been used as wipe after a soul had gotten their eyeballs ripped out, as I had once seen Alastair perform on Dean, or if somebody's eyes had burned out of their skull while wearing what now acted as protection for mine. The only problem that came with being temporarily blinded was that it heightened every other sense that I possessed. Especially hearing.

A whimper leaves my own throat as the woman lets out a particularly loud scream and my hands automatically pressed harder into my head, pushing the three studs that stuck through my earlobe into the skin behind them. It was the silence after her wail that was deafening, however, and I pulled my legs further into my body in anticipation. Dean had started to play a game of his own since the razor had been passed down to him. He would pretend to end the session and allow the soul to think that he was giving them a chance to escape before he put a blade through their spine. I suspect that this new favourite hobby of his likely stemmed from the pain and despair he himself must have felt during one of his own sessions with Alastair back during his first month in the Pit. Alastair had pretended to end their session and a fake Sam had appeared in front of him, telling Dean that he had come to rescue him. It was only when "Sam's" eyes had flashed black and "he" had started blaming Dean for getting "him" back into hunting that Dean had been distracted enough to allow the copy of his brother to drive a blade through him.

The incident had hurt me too. There was something about watching the brothers together onscreen. Maybe it was when Dean had made the deal for Sam's life or when Sam had held his brother's body, but somewhere along the way their bond had become one of the reasons that I had kept watching. The idea of the Winchester brothers having a temporary fight was enough to bring me discomfort, but watching one stab the other? _Especially _Sam, the one person Dean had essentially forgone whatever pieces of childhood he may have possessed as a child for? Well that was entirely new levels of painful.

Would Dean have made me watch him do that to this woman if he knew how much the incident had affected me too? That was primary point of contemplation for me throughout the session. The years in Hell had effectively hurt him, that much was certain. He was clearly receiving pleasure from inflicting the same kind of pain on others, yet he protected me as much as he could all the same. The blindfold was proof of that considering that I had made almost no effort to hide how much these nightmares were affecting me; and why should I? If I wasn't safe to show my emotions in my own head, then where else was I supposed to? I still don't understand why Dean goes to such lengths for somebody he clearly distrusts, but if not dwelling on it is what has been getting me through these nights, then that was what I would do.

I was wrong though. Dean had forgone any tricks he may have held up his sleeve for tonight and had lowered my hands from my ears before untying the blindfold around my eyes. I couldn't stop the cry from escaping my throat upon seeing his blood-covered hands. He immediately retracted them from my body.

"Sorry." The apology was feeble and he sounded more ashamed than apologetic. I only shook my head in response.

"Don't. You–" I gestured helplessly towards him. "You don't belong here." My voice broke and the back of my head slammed against the wall the rest of my body rested on, frustration clouding my thoughts.

"How can you say that?" he growls at me and for a moment I almost think that I must have imagined the noise before I turn to face him and take in the broken expression on his face. "How can you say that after _everything_…Everything you've seen? Everything I've _done_?"

Was he serious? Did he actually think that after seeing everything that had happened to him, I was holding his actions of all things against him?

"You're joking, right? Dean, you were tortured for _thirty _years." I watch with amazement as his eyes widen. "I don't blame you for breaking."

His next words hit me harder than I expected to.

"What? No…it can't have…It's been longer than that," he states with certainty.

At most, I only spent a couple of hours here every night, but Dean? Dean spent every second in the Pit and what has only been a ratio of 1:10 to me must have felt like an eternity to him.

"Time moves differently here. It's faster than it is on Earth. A hundred and five times or so approximately, I think. I'm not precisely sure, I estimated. It's only been three months back…up there."

Its silent for several moments before he speaks up again

"You… you estimated how much faster time is in Hell?"

"Well I would have calculated it," my voice grows defensive as an incredulous look replaces the disbelieving one he wore only seconds ago, "but I can't get any accurate results unless I'm constantly in two places at once for a month straight. So I kind of just settled for an estimated 1:10 ratio."

"No…you tried to calculate how fast time in Hell moves." _Yeah genius, we established that_, I think to myself as he continues. "_Who does that?_ Seriously, out of everything that happened here in the past thirty years, _that's _what you chose to focus on? Is that like a nerd thing? Do all nerds do that?"

My jaw drops open and the defensive feeling that had been slowly growing in my gut flared throughout my body within seconds.

"Okay dickwad, way to be stereotypical! It's because of the glasses, isn't it? You're totally stereotyping me because of my glasses!"

The incredulous look returns before his lips break into a small grin. _What the hell?_

"Okay, Penguin Pajamas. So are you a conspiracy theorist in addition to being a medical student or just out of it?"

What? I stare at him confused. Where could he have gotten that one from?

"You accused me of being stereotypical because of your glasses."

"It's a valid accusation!" I defend my words once more.

"Yeah, except you're not wearing any glasses, Einstein."

My face scrunches in confusion once more as my hands fly up to my eyes, feeling for the plastic frames and finding…nothing. Right, I didn't sleep with them on. Well that explained why I had been so painfully near-sighted in every single nightmare. I feel my face growing hot again before I grab a blade from him.

"Shut up," I groan in embarrassment as I bring the blade to my forearm.

"Wait."

Of all the days he could have chosen to be talkative…I sigh once more before motioning him to continue.

"Yes, Dean?"

He looks down for a few seconds, hesitation evident in his movements, before continuing.

"You said that I didn't belong here...How, how would you know that?"

_Because I've seen you sacrifice yourself for your brother. Because I've seen you save more lives than you've hurt. Because I've seen _you _hurt._

Crap. He was expecting a legitimate response. I rub a sweaty hand on my pants nervously before looking at him.

"Alastair," his previously relaxed posture goes frigid again and I want to whack myself over the head for being the reason behind that, "he said once, when you guys couldn't see me, that you saved your brother?" He only nods in response, jaw clenched and eyes faraway – no doubt thinking of Sam. "Well that doesn't sound like somebody who deserves to be in Hell."

* * *

_November 1__st__, 2008_

_Toronto, Ontario_

As fate would have it, after Dean and I sort of started getting along, the nightmares stopped. As of today, I was officially around three months free of nightmares. I had cried the morning after the first night that I had slept through. The marks on my arms were fading to scars under my bandages and the dark circles under my eyes had disappeared. My complexion was back to normal and despite having to write the longest exam of my life the first day of my freedom, I have never felt better. Sure it would have been nice to have had more moments with Dean similar to the final one we had shared where the atmosphere had almost been light, but I felt no remorse towards the lack of goodbye between us. All that I cared about at this point was that I was happy and healthy again. I still reminisced about what I had seen in the hypothetical Pit, but that too was being pushed to the darkest corner of my mind where I would hopefully never encounter the memories again.

It had been difficult at first to forget, yes. I still had trouble even looking at a knife, let alone picking one up. It didn't matter if it was plastic or steel; a blade in a shaving razor or a butter knife. Sharp, metallic objects that were not my earrings or nose studs were off limits for me. The feelings of being emotionally numb had started to fade, however, and my social life was beginning to exist again. I was even able to sit through an entire conversation centered on Supernatural between my friends. I didn't flinch when Dean's name was mentioned and even inquired about Ruby's new actress and the character of Castiel, but I never asked for details beyond that. I still hadn't laid eyes upon the fourth season nor did I plan to. How TV-Dean had gotten out of Hell was none of my concern and no matter how much I missed the feelings of excitement that rushed through me every time I had seen an episode or a BM scene, I couldn't bring myself to watch the fourth season or anything before it. I would _not _subject myself to those nightmares again.

…

"Come on… where is it?" I fumbled through my handbag for the keys to my apartment. Medical school was impossibly hard and all I wanted to do was collapse on my bed. It still astonished me how I had managed to pass the MCAT with the condition the nightmares had put me in.

Relief washed over me as I felt the cool metal against my skin. _Here I come, sweet sleep_. I quickly stomped into the apartment as soon as I heard the click of the lock, my heels louder than usual. This had been a habit of mine that I had developed as soon as I had moved out of my parents' house for university. A show about demons and ghosts didn't scare me nearly as much as the idea of coming home to an apartment with an intruder in it. Silence greeted me in return and I let out a sigh of relief, quickly locking the door before turning to face the rest of the apartment.

_Bed. Bed. Bed. Be-_

My eyes widened in fear as they met a pair of grey. _Crap. _

I stared at the man who had managed to come up behind me without making a sound. _He doesn't look like an intruder_. His suit was far too fancy for breaking and entering and his greying hair made him look more like some corporate CEO than a petty robber. Still, what else did you call a guy who had entered your apartment while you were out and was now staring down at you as if he had won a prize? I felt my stomach twisting and the goose bumps rising over my bare legs as I attempted to take a step back, which only resulted in my spine meeting the front door. _Crap_. I had no place to escape, I realized as the man came closer, his eyes taking me in as if I was some kind of prey.

_Oh god. I could die tonight. Think, Daisy. Think!_

"I –" My voice cracked as I struggled to speak. "Al – All of my money is in the other room. I don't hav –"

He cut me off with a laugh as I stared at him in horror. The bastard was laughing at me.

_You'll be fine, Daisy. Just go for the groin._

"I don't want your money, girl." He had me completely trapped between him and the door now. It was now or never, I realized, as I tried to bring my knee up as subtly as possible, hoping for the best. What was I even doing? I had never taken lessons for any form of fighting or self-defense and here I was, trying to fight off a guy in three inch heels and a skirt. I quickly slammed my knee into his groin, silently cheering and expecting him to instantly double over in pain. I was sure that he would. It had been a clear hit…and he barely flinched. _Crap! _His eyes narrowed in anger and before I had even registered his hand moving towards me, he was pulling my hair, forcing me to let out a pained groan. "You will pay for that, you pathetic ape."

_Ape? _

I barely had a second to react to the odd insult before he had pressed two fingers against my forehead and the world had begun to spin.

…

It had stopped as soon as it began, leaving me with an ache in my head and a feeling of nausea. I clutched my head and stumbled for a few seconds before managing to get my feet to stay in one place for longer than a second. The nausea wasn't as strong as it had been mere moments ago, but the sunlight wasn't helping – wait _sunlight_? My eyes snapped open and my hand fell back to my side as I took in my surroundings. _This definitely is not my apartment_. Only seconds ago I had been standing in a dark apartment, upon a wooden floor, and had been trapped between an overly dressed intruder and a door. Now, I stood in the middle of a grassy field, under the glaring sunlight, surrounded by fallen trees. The area must have been a forest once, but now it looked as if a nuclear bomb had been dropped on it.

_Where am I? _

My eyes fall on the cross in that stands in the middle of the perfect circle of destruction. Was that supposed to be a grave? Within seconds of noticing it, I managed to cross the area of grass that separated me from it.

'_No name'_, I think to myself as I trace the wood with my finger. I wonder why anybody would create a grave out here? Its a voice that snaps me out of my pondering.

"_Help_!" The voice is faint and for a moment I think that I must have imagined it. A feeling of unease takes over as I step back from the cross and turn to face the distance beyond the site. There was no way I was still in Canada, but how did I manage to even leave my apartment in the first place? Was this a dream? Were the nightmares back?

"Help!" I couldn't have imagined _that_. While still faint, it was undoubtedly there.

"H – hello?" My own voice is shaking as I frantically search for the source. I can't pinpoint its direction and the idea of leaving this unknown place for something even more foreign terrifies me. It's almost as if the sound is coming from below me… but that's impossible? Whoever's grave this was, they must have been long gone by now.

_But what if they're really in trouble? _

The distinct noise of something collapsing reaches my ears and before I am able to even comprehend what is taking place, my right foot is falling through open air where there was once hard earth and a warm hand is clutching my ankle. A scream escapes my throat as the hand tugs my leg towards it. Was it trying to pull me in _with _it? Panic overtakes every part of me as I furiously begin to fight the unknown hand.

"Let go of me!" I struggle against the tight hold, kicking where possible, hands frantically clutching at grass as I am pulled further into the grave. I can barely hear the groaning and gasping of whoever is clutching my ankle over my own screams as another hand grabs a hold of my thigh as if it is a lifeline. "Get off!" I scream, finally managing to kick the perpetrator somewhere.

Another groan and then release.

My heart is pounding as I desperately grab at the grass, attempting to pull myself up, and stumble forwards. My heels are digging into the grass and were it any other circumstance, I may have complained about the dirt stains, but this was not any other situation. Somebody had crawled out of a grave, _somehow, _and now they wanted me to move in. My sole focus right now had to be on survival. What if the freaky zombie tried to grab me again? What if he was some kind of serial killer? What if he was just some guy who had been buried alive? The possible scenarios ran through my head as I felt a heel give out from underneath me, causing me to come crashing down.

_No, no! Get up!_

My heart was beating frantically as I grabbed at more grass. My efforts only proving to be futile. I _had _to calm down if I wanted to be able to successfully run away from some grave crawler with a broken heel. Did he even manage to pull the rest of him up, or were his hands still grasping onto whatever they could? Curiosity got the best of me as I pulled myself up to rest on my forearm and glanced back to see the man lying on his back, panting.

He didn't _look _like a zombie. No, in fact he seemed rather familiar. My eyes widened in realization as I _really _took in his features. Dirty blond hair covered in dirt, a freckled nose and two layers. _Holy crap!_

"Dean?"

His eyes finally opened as he pushed himself up to face me. They're green and only confirm my suspicions.

"Daisy?"

* * *

**Closing Note: **Wow, thirteen pages in Word! I hope you guys don't mind, but I felt like I owed you all something long for the long wait. Any guesses on who the intruder might have been? I think I made it pretty obvious, haha. Its quite late here so I apologize for any errors that may be present, but I feel like this chapter's release has been delayed enough already. Please review and let me know your thoughts about this one! See you in chapter four!


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